Break Point Down Read online

  “I should have. I know you.”

  “I thought I knew Jeff. Anyway, I've made my peace with all that. I want to make peace with you. I am sorry.”

  “No, I'm the one who was stupid. Will you forgive me?”

  “Straight across.”

  “Done.”

  For a moment they stood, awkwardly facing each other, and at almost the same time they reached out and their hands touched, and tears were in their eyes. Kitt buried his face in her hair, while Shay closed her eyes and pressed her face against his shoulder. They stood silently for a time, till Kitt said he had to go to work, and she nodded, smiling at him. By the door he turned around and came back. He bent down and kissed her gently.

  Outside he looked up at her window. She was still standing there.

  The daisies drove him back to his relentless search of the neighborhoods. For the time being, he spent a few nights at a youth hostel, trying to figure things out. He'd thought of a roommate, but that wouldn't work with Kari.

  The latest clippings arrived in envelopes with a return address that didn't exist, and they were now all about teenage prostitution and the street dangers of assault and battery, AIDS, and drug addiction. He disciplined himself to consider the mailings rationally.

  Someone he knew? Henry Warner? He was too big. He wouldn't mess with this. He might have whispered in the ears of TEN-PRO, but not this sort of thing. Maybe Rick? Rick, who bugged him per schedule about returning to the tour? Rick, who stood to make a great deal of money off a possible return?

  No way. Not Rick. Dave? He'd surprised Kitt with his viciousness that day at the restaurant, and later with a drunken phone call. Dave, who'd always been easy-going, laid back. But that was right after the shock, and it was quite a stretch to think— Not Dave. What about Zack? Zack had sort of burned out. But he'd been good to Jeff, and in the end he'd been okay. Called now and then, and had tried to help. When Jeff died he'd been a real friend. Les, then? No. Les didn't have a mean bone in his body. Could it be something completely different—nothing to do with tennis, maybe someone he didn't know?

  Or Wynne. Wynne knew who had done this. She wouldn't tell unless it suited her purpose, but she knew. She'd worked with Jeff and a couple of others to bring him down, and she had passed on the information on the animals. Did she know what it was to be used for?

  Wynne was nobody's fool. She had known the dog was dead before she got there, when no one knew but the vet and the neighbors, who didn't exactly move in her circles. She'd known what they were going to do with the information. Why else would she have told anyone about Thor's eating habits, or about Kaz ? Whoever had carried out the job was sadistic—Wynne was merely practical. She'd try to eliminate obstacles. The dog was in the way of a comeback. He had to go. The man who had thrown the cheese at Thor and come back to take pictures of the dog thrashing about in his death agony—he was no paid killer. This was no indifferent contractor of dirty jobs. There was passion in it. He'd relished the act, and he was savoring the pain he was inflicting on Kitt now. This went way beyond Wynne's petty attempts at domination. This man was no mere vehicle for her manipulation. He had a personal stake. Maybe she was using him, but he had his own agenda.

  Who? Why? Was this about tennis after all?

  Someone who knew where he lived, what he did, knew about his pets, his financial hassles. Someone who knew Wynne and probably Jeff. Someone who knew about Kari. Could it simply be a psychotic fan, maybe one who'd risked a lot of money on his aces and break points? More than one person? Someone from Kari's new life, blaming him for Kari's troubles?

  He'd been all over this before. At one time or another, he'd thought of everyone who knew him well, then dismissed all the known players from his mind. Henry Warner. Lloyd-Rutgers. Rick. Even Wynne, except as an accessory.

  The next day Rick called, and he had exciting news.

  “I was going to set you up with an exo later in the summer, but I've got one for you in three weeks if you want it.”

  “Three weeks!”

  “Turns out this guy is skipping Wimbledon because he's mad about his seeding. We can set it up right in your own backyard, at the Colosseum not five miles from where you are right now. It's soon, I know, but there's a cool hundred big ones in it for you. After taxes.”

  A hundred thousand dollars. He used to get more and be annoyed at having to play. A hundred grand was huge.

  “Who are we talking about, anyway?”

  “Kurt Zeller.”

  “Zeller! That creep.”

  “Does it matter whether you like him or not?”

  “Not for a hundred grand it doesn't.”

  “Can you be ready?”

  “I'll be ready. Been working out and conditioning. I'll be a little rusty, but after a set I should get going.”

  “I'll call you with the details. Deal?”

  “You've got a deal. You think I can get an advance?”

  ”Pretty broke, are you?”

  “Got to buy some practice time, stringing, all of that. And my truck got stolen.”

  “What's this world coming to, stealing that abortion. I think I can get you ten, twenty grand.” Kitt knew Rick would get the cash, out of his own pocket if need be. He needed no videophone to see his agent's face, which said that ten grand meant nothing when it came to signing up Kitt Buchanan and getting him started on the road back to pro tennis.

  He arranged to meet George, and worked out with him for several hours that evening. Afterward, Kitt glanced over at the coach.

  “You think I can still beat him?”

  “With one hand tied behind your back.”

  “No, seriously?”

  “You'll be a step slow and a quarter second late for the first few games. Get the first set 6-4, maybe 7-5. At worst a tiebreak. By the second set you'll be cruising.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Don't worry about it. Should get you on your feet, huh?”

  “That's the idea.”

  Ten thousand, he found, did not go far when you started from scratch, but he'd learned a thing or two about budgeting. With a good bike for transportation and a tiny apartment in a cheap district for a home, he felt grounded. To have more time for practice, he quit his job at the warehouse. His rackets were strung as he liked, and he gloried in the power of them. He spent hours each day on the tennis courts of the university, and at the Tennis Club, which advertised his coming match and donated court time. Shay watched his preparations without much comment. Kitt didn't know what to make of her noncommittal attitude.

  “You're not too excited about this, are you?”

  “Honestly, Kitt, I'm happy for you.”

  “Afraid I'll lose?”

  “You won't lose.”

  “Got some free tickets for you.”

  He gave her a searching look, then turned back to the kids waiting for his directions.

  “You're getting a serve, Tommy. You keep practicing.”

  He nodded at the youngster with the brooding eyes, and he thought he saw the boy's face brighten for just a moment. They'd worked on that serve for weeks. The only time Tommy talked was when he could look at the ball. He could safely control the conversation, avoid eye contact, and hit hard balls that required a lot of chasing when things got too close. Kitt saw the opening, and patiently waited to develop it.

  The kids were more at ease with him now. They'd found out he was famous, a former pro, but the respect for his status as a world-class athlete was easily balanced by their disapproval. He'd had it all, and then chucked it. Nobody could be that stupid.

  After the practices they made plans for the program, talked over the kids. The struggles with Kari's problems started to come in handy. He'd learned something. For one thing, he was more patient, more willing to let them set their own timetable.

  The kids' skills were slowly improving. Most of them could sustain a rally of a few strokes now, and a few were volleying a little. Kitt laughed when he thought of the professional coaches and train
ers, the sports psychologists and fitness trainers, the agents and the managers who had collaborated on the project Kitt Buchanan, all-time champion. All the psychology these kids would see, all the shots they'd learn would come from two people, one an amateur who'd never played more than a few weekend matches, the other an impoverished ex-jock who couldn't afford to have his rackets strung.

  “I was so used to smashing my way out of trouble,” he told Shay later. “Like I could force every situation into the right groove. I'd always dictated the play. Then I had to learn to let Kari make her own plays, even if they were wrong.”

  “You can't force healing, Kitt.”

  “I tried so hard to make it all go away, have her wipe the whole mess out of her life. Don't worry about it, you did nothing wrong. Put it behind you. Go on with your life. How stupid is that.”

  “You knew nothing of abuse, Kitt. You didn't know what it does to a kid, what to do, what to say.”

  “She was so hurt. I can't describe it. Like a light went out.”

  “You tackled the problem with all you had. When you saw Kari needed you to get new tools, you did. That's what will help her in the end.”

  “But she's gone.”

  “She'll be back.”

  “Thank you. I needed to hear that. Even if you're just saying it to cheer me up.”

  “So cheer up. I'm going to drop off Tad and Ron.”

  “Want to go for some dinner after?”

  “I've got a better idea. Picnic on the trail?”

  “I've got to be at the library at eight. Tutoring a couple of guys. How about the park?”

  Afterward they walked slowly in the direction of the university. Kitt's eyes lit up as they passed by the plate glass doors of the Marriott Hotel.

  “Hey, let's stop in here. They have a piano.”

  He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the lobby of the hotel at the edge of the park. A magnificent grand piano stood at the center of the large hall.

  “Are you allowed to touch it?”

  “One way to find out.”

  He sat down at the piano and played a few chords, limbering up his fingers. A hotel clerk came walking purposefully toward Kitt, but Shay intercepted him with a few questions, and when she let go, several guests were gathered around the piano, listening to Schuman's Träumerei and Mozart's Sonata Facile. When he was finished, one man tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Can you play the Blue Danube?”

  Kitt eyed him critically, but he caught Shay's glance, and without a word he turned back. Soon, he heard waterfalls cascading down the mountainside, myriads of drops sprinkling and splashing on the rocks to the mesmerizing rhythms of the greatest of all the waltzes. Other guests came with requests, and he played on.

  “I have to go, folks. Nice to meet you.”

  A couple of the men dropped bills on the piano. He flushed furiously and started to refuse, but they had already turned away and were chatting among themselves.

  Shay grinned and started picking up the money.

  “Shay, don't do that!”

  “You played right pretty, pardner. Here,” she handed him the stack of bills. “There's at least a hundred fifty there.”

  “I can't believe I'm taking this.”

  “Why not? You earned it. All you need is a monkey.”

  “I got you.”

  Another manila envelope awaited him at home. Open it? Throw it out? His curiosity got the better of him. Maybe there'd be some clue to the sender. He ripped the brown paper and pulled out pictures cut from magazines. He turned them over and over, looking for something that would give him a place to start, something that told him who might have sent them.

  It had been eating at him, the thought that he was missing something important. Something that would tie the puzzles of his life together. The next day, he broke down and told Shay about Thor and Kaz and the rest of it.

  “What do you suppose this guy wants?” asked Kitt. “And is it even the same guy every time?”

  “I'd bet it is. It's a sicko, Kitt. He doesn't need reasons. This guy is not a normal person, and he doesn't think like one.”

  “But he's not stupid. He knows my comings and goings. He knows a lot about my life, past and present.”

  “Just don't let him get into your future.”

  “Suggestions?”

  “Start at the other end. You've been looking at people, reasons. So start with a personality profile. Then think of people who may fit.”

  “It may be someone I don't know.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Happy thought. An old friend?”

  “Not a friend, maybe, but someone you know.”

  “It sounds very cloak and dagger.”

  They were walking through the park near her apartment, and Kitt kicked at a pile of last year's leaves, watching them fly in all directions.

  “What am I overlooking, Shay? I have this sense of urgency now. Like this is somehow leading up to Kari. She—”

  He stopped cold, and the expression on his face scared her.

  “What? What were you going to say?”

  He shook his head impatiently. “I just have this feeling.”

  “Tell me.”

  He thought for a few moments, his mouth grim.

  “I've been leaning to the idea that it has nothing to do with tennis. But when my condo got trashed, Danny thought there might be a connection. If you look at that angle—”

  “What do your friends think about it now?”

  “They don't know. All they know about is the car and the condo.”

  “You've been run off the road, shot at, had your pets killed, and you get hate mail. You have friends who are running an investigation, and you didn't tell them?”

  “They're investigating something else entirely. Look, Shay, I keep getting back to the idea of three lines that keep crossing each other.”

  “Explain.”

  “Number one, the psychological pressure to return to the tour. Family and others. Then the financial sabotage. Both scaled back after my first year out unless you count the stolen Suburban. Even the postretirement bets must've been off by then.”

  “Why not count the Suburban? And the job you lost at the university?”

  “Unlikely. One was opportunism, and the job may be due to my diplomatic efforts. Anyway, small stuff.”

  “And the connections are Wynne and her father, and maybe Warner?”

  “And Jeff. The details of my negotiations had to come from Jeff. No one else knew.”

  “Okay. And the third line is the personal stuff, the violence?”

  “And that has escalated. It may not be connected. The economical pressure was detached, impersonal. Purely commercial maneuvers. Bring him to his knees. Jeff went for a double-or-nothing after I quit. Maybe others did, too. Wynne is involved here too, but she's not the one who's running this show.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not her m.o. Wynne is never out of control. This isn't her kind of malice. But she knows who's doing it and doesn't mind supplying some info just in case it may do her some good. So that points to a connection again, but it's all speculation. I could be way off. This could have to do with Kari, with her new life.”

  “What if this person doesn't quit?”

  After he walked her home he went running for a couple of hours. He was worried to the depths of his soul because all his instincts told him to take action. It took a leap of faith, but what if these three lines formed a pattern? A pattern with a kink in it somewhere. Two threads are cut. The players lose interest. But the third is somebody who is out-of-control mad, maybe because one and two didn't work. Fixated on me. Tennis, Kari, a thousand other reasons. A head case who can't let go. First some silly stuff—stupid, illegal, downright nasty. A psychopath who gets wound up tighter and tighter. So he gets personal. A guy who wants a piece of me. A wacko with a hatred that feeds on itself. Getting closer and closer, trying to mess with my head.

  Put together a profi
le, Shay said. This guy might be part of the setup and yet separate. Smart enough to keep him guessing. Got off on terrorizing people. Someone who hated his guts.

  What was the logical next step? Was it going to be logical?

  The car, the condo. A matter of money. An annoyance. The hit-and-run, and it had become dangerous. The shooting. Ditto.

  Thor. Kaz. Hate mail.

  Now he's ripping your heart out and he knows it. Did Wynne help him? She must have told him about the cheese, about Kaz. And the first two or three mailings had been spread over weeks, but now they came three, four times a week. A change in momentum. What did it mean? Talk to Delaney and MacPhie after the exo.

  The package that arrived the day of the match had no legible postmark. It was small, the sort that was cooled, to send cheese or deli meats. He'd mailed them himself from Europe—cheeses from Holland and Switzerland, that kind of stuff. Maybe a go-get'em gift from MacPhie or Delaney.

  But the box didn't come from a friend, and inside, pitifully small, a limp, dead kitten, its head twisted at a cruel angle.

  Rick came to pick him up for the match, looked around with disapproval and gave a quick glance at the little dead animal. He seemed genuinely shocked.

  “Don't let it get to you, Kitt,“ he warned. “Someone's playing with your head.”

  It isn't Rick. At least it isn't Rick.

  “Or making bets.”

  “Whatever. Well, throw it in the garbage and let's go.”

  “I got to bury him.”

  “Oh, for heaven's sake, Kitt. This is not even your cat. It's none of your business.”

  Kitt angrily shook his head.

  “Someone tortured this little thing just to get at me. That makes it my business. I'm going to bury him.”

  “Geez. We have an exo to play against a top-tenner in a few hours. You haven't played a decent match for nearly two years, and you're going to have a play funeral for an alley cat.”

  He made Rick stop on the way and he dug a hole by the road out of town and buried the kitten. Rick turned the car and shook his head.

  “Sentimental slob. It's time you got a life.”

  Kitt stamped the soil over the little grave. This was becoming a habit, burying dead animals. More than anything, that got to him. Property destroyed was one thing. Cruelty to an animal was another. Who? Why? So was this the next step? Just a reminder?